Revelation

Arkansas, 1867

It snowed the night Annie Moss died. It was the first snow of the year, fat white clumps floating down to earth in a sleepy dance. They mixed with the dirt and manure of the street as people walked through it. All was still, the special silence that comes with a good snowfall.

George Moss stumbled from the little clapboard house they lived in, blood splattered and dazed. He looked about, lost, ignoring questions from the people on the street around him. Little James raced off to get the Sheriff as George looked up at the dark sky, the white flakes melting into the red on his face, making him cry blood.

“Run.”

The word barely left his lips before he collapsed, the muddied snow around his body turning to rust.

*****

The U.S. Marshal arrived with the evening post. He stumbled out of the train’s single passenger car and into the town of Revelation. To the casual observer he could be a doctor. Tall, with round spectacles perched dangerously on the end of his nose, he carried a small bag strung together with an old carpet and fraying twine.

Only those looking for it would see the gun holstered on his hip under the long black coat pulled tightly around his thin frame against the bitter cold of the northern Arkansas winter. He walked with hunched shoulders and his elbows stuck out at odd angles, as though he had forgotten they were there.

The Marshal crunched over frozen mud, then up the wooden stairs into the office with ‘Sheriff’ posted over the door.

Inside, two men lounged, one with his boots comfortably propped on his desk as he smoked a pipe and the other engrossed in the daily news. A holding cell stood empty behind them.

The newcomer cleared his throat and the man smoking the pipe looked over at him.

“Can I help you?”

The Marshal pulled off his bowler hat, hesitating as if he couldn’t figure out what to do with it before allowing it to simply hang by his side.

“Sheriff Johnson?”

“That’s right. Who’re you, stranger?”

“Thomas Gray, U.S. Marshal.”

The young man set down his bag and dug into the pockets of his great coat. The man with the newspaper was watching him now. He finally pulled out the silver circle with its star in the center, holding it out to the Sheriff who glanced at it.

“Welcome to Revelation, Marshal,” he said, “I imagine you’ve had a long journey and would like to get refreshed. Quincy here can show you over to Twiggs’ Boarding House.”

“That does sound tempting. However, as I am here now, I would much rather learn some more about the case I was asked to investigate.”

“Marshal, it’s getting near dinnertime and Quincy and I both have families to get home to.”

The Marshal stared at the Sheriff for a moment. The gaze over the glasses made Johnson feel he was back in the schoolhouse getting a lecture on his letters.

“Well, how much of the situation do you know?” Johnson went on, hurriedly.

“A woman was killed by her husband,” Thomas glanced at the empty cell, Where is your suspect, Sheriff?”

There was an uncomfortable pause.

“Someplace safe.”

“Safer than a jail?”

“Only the bars are iron, Marshal. The walls’re made of wood.”

“I am sure a man would still have a difficult time of escaping, Mr. Quincy.”

That earned a snort and Quincy shook his head.

“We’re not tryin’ to keep him from gettin’ out. More like tryin’ to keep them from gettin’ in. Annie Moss was a sweet woman, godly and pious. The folk ‘round here weren’t too happy about what he did.”

“So where have you put him for safe keeping, Sheriff?” Thomas frowned. “I will need to speak with him at some point.”

Sheriff Johnson was silent, mulling something over. Then he gave a sharp nod to Quincy.

“Take ‘im there, Quince. I need to get home before Mrs. Johnson throws a fit. Good evening, Marshal.”

Thomas nodded, picking up his bag as he followed the deputy outside.

“Evening, Sheriff.”

Quincy led Thomas down the rickety steps, their boots crunching in the thin layer of snow.

“I apologize,” Thomas started looking at the deputy’s back, “I do not know your last name, mister…” He trailed off expectantly and Quincy glanced over his shoulder at him.

“Moss. Quincy Moss. George is my brother,” he said shortly and Thomas frowned.

“And you don’t find anything wrong with investigating your own brother?” he asked, “Some people might find you somewhat…”

“What, Marshal? Biased?” Quincy snorted, “Trust me, there ain’t nothin’ biased about this investigation. I am seeking to protect my brother until true justice can be served. George is not a violent man. But all men have their breaking point and we deserve to know what George’s was before he brutally ripped his wife apart. It wasn’t a pretty picture, Marshal, what Doc and half the town found in that house.”

Thomas sighed. If this was how it was to be in the small town, then he would have to figure out how to work with them. He had worked in similarly small towns in the past and come across comparable situations to this one. Although he had questions about just how one man could have physically torn apart a woman. But those questions could wait until later.

Quincy led him a good distance out of town, winding down a small road into a copse of cottonwood trees, branches glittering with frost, up to a little ramshackle cabin, the only difference between it and any other cabin in town were the plates of iron across the windows and door.

“So much security?” he asked, “Does anyone know he’s even here besides you and the Sheriff?”

Quincy shook his head as he unlocked the padlocked door and slid the bar out, pushing it inwards. Smart to have it go in. A man might have the opportunity to push a door open if he wanted to, but it seemed they had figured this out.

“No, Marshall, but if you had seen what George did to his wife, then you would want extra protection too.” Quincy stepped inside, gesturing for Thomas to follow.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimly lit interior, but once they did he saw a man curled up in the corner. Thomas approached him slowly as though he were handling a wild animal, before crouching down in front of him.

“Good evening, Mr. Moss, I am U.S. Marshal Thomas Gray. I was sent here by Judge Parker to take you into custody, but I have some questions for you first, if that is all right,” he spoke in a low, soothing tone.

The man stared at him from the corner of the room, no flicker of recognition in his expression. Thomas straightened, setting his hat and suitcase down, perching on the edge of the one rickety wooden chair in the center of the room.

“Mr. Moss, I would like to hear from you what occurred on the night of Mrs. Moss’ death.”

George pressed himself back further into the corner as though he could sink right into the wall.

“Not safe,” he muttered, “Not safe. No one’s safe.”

Thomas glanced back at Quincy who hovered in the doorway.

"Has he said anything else?" he asked and the deputy shook his head.

"Just keeps repeating that no one's safe," he shrugged, "Doc tried to get more out of him, but no success. I'm afraid it's going to take some time before we're able to get the story out of him. But for now, Marshal, I have to get home to the wife and family. I'll show you the Twiggs' boarding house on the way."

With that, Quincy was done and he turned away, gesturing for him to follow.

"Don't worry, Marshal, you'll get your chance to question him later, I can promise you that."

Thomas walked out of the small building, letting the Deputy Sheriff lead the way.

They didn't go far before Quincy stopped in front of a building nodding at it.

"Well, here's Janie Twiggs' place. I reckon she'll wring a few dollars out of you before long enough. Never seen a woman with a head for business like her. You have a good night, Marshal." With that Quincy Marsh strode away, leaving Thomas Gray in the growing dusk. He looked up, taking stock of the boarding house.

It was a two-story wooden structure set just on the outstkirts of the town. An elderly dog sprawled on the porch, barely lifting its head to look at the new person on its property. Thomas leaned down to scratch its ear before stepping over it to knock on the front door. A moment, then the sound of footsteps and a young woman was pushing open the door, looking up at him expectedly.

She was striking, not for beauty, but for the scar. From ear to almost the corner of her mouth, the pale skin stretched and puckered. Thomas knew a burn scar when he saw one. She made no attempt to hide it with her hair pulled back in a loose bun, and she wore a plain cotton dress and apron.

“Yes?”

“Excuse me, ma’am, I was told there are rooms available here,” Thomas said, bowler hat already in hand. The woman looked suspicious and he quickly added, “Sheriff Johnson sent me here.”

The suspicion did not fade, but she stepped back anyway, allowing him room to enter the house.

“We do have rooms,” she said as Thomas took in the neat foyer, “Dollar a night. Dollar and a half if you want meals, too.”

“That sounds reasonable.”

“You have a name?”

“U.S. Marshal Thomas Gray, at your service, ma’am,” he said with a courteous nod of his head, “Are you the proprietor of this establishment?”

The suspicion was back as she looked him up and down.

“Yes. Janie Twiggs. You don’t look much like a Marshal,” she said doubtfully and he shifted, “Or talk like one.”

“I am, if you care to see my badge.”

Janie shook her head and gestured for him to follow her.

“You’re lucky. You just missed the stock trade. Rooms were packed last week and you would’ve been caught sharing one.”

“That is lucky,” Thomas agreed, “I will confess that the boarding houses I have stayed in recently have not offered much in the way of privacy.”

A wary glance was thrown over her shoulder at him as she moved up the stairs, pulling a key out of a worn apron pocket.

“Breakfast’s at seven every mornin’; supper’s at five. Both are served in the dining room downstairs.”

They passed an older gentleman in the hallway. He and Thomas exchanged polite nods.

“Washroom’s out back,” she continued, unlocking a door and pushing it open for him, “Hot water’s extra. You have a bowl and bucket in here for your use, as long as you take them out yourself.”

The room was simple, with a brass bed and a faded throw rug on the floor. A dresser stood in one corner with a pitcher and bowl, a mirror hanging above them on the wall.

“Thank you very much, ma’am,” Thomas said, setting his bag on the bed. “Would you like payme…”

Janie’s hand was already out and he rummaged in his coat until he found some gold dollars. They were whisked away, quickly hidden in the folds of her skirt.

“Dinner in twenty minutes. Welcome to Revelation, Marshal.”